Jermala's Quest
by Starsister12
Summary: The sorceress daughter of the Wanderer seeks to stop the evil unleashed by Diablo and his brothers. Follows the Diablo game story with the Sorceress character, please read and review!
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

_When Diablo escaped Hell and came to Sanctuary, the world changed. The dead rose to strike down the living, once shy and gentle creatures were twisted into deadly monstrosities, and new horrors appeared to stalk the land. Terror reigned and no one was safe. Archbishop Lazarus of Tristram in Khanduras fell under demonic influence and set Diablo free by shattering the red soulstone which had trapped the demon's spirit for centuries. Diablo established his base of power in the ruins of the old Monastery, spreading his evil aura of terror in the forms of his Hellspawn._

_Many adventurers came to Tristram to face Diablo and his minions, some for the glory, some for the challenge, some for the money, some for the chance to study this evil, like Sorcerers from the Vizjeri Mage Clans, and some because they truly wished to destroy this evil. Many came. Most were killed, maimed, or frightened away. None left unchanged._

_Then came two unusual adventurers: a Sorceress, with the brown eyes, hair, and tanned skin of a jungle-dweller, and a silent, cloaked warrior. They had traveled at least partway to Tristram together. The warrior, calm and focused, was unknown and remained unnamed to all the people. But the woman was Mistri of the Zann Esu, the female sect of the Mage Clans. She had a daughter, Jermala, who was training to be a Sorceress like her mother despite her young age. However, Mistri had left Jermala in Kingsport in Westmarch so the young girl would not be exposed to the dangers of Tristram. However, as a Zann Esu Sorceress, Mistri believed that her duty lay in aiding the warrior against Diablo in the besieged town. _

_Although both Mistri and the silent warrior fought their way into Diablo's lair, only he came out alive. Mistri was slain by Diablo. As Diablo's death cry rang through the skies, only Deckard Cain, the last Horadrim Sage, heard Jermala's scream, the anguished cry of a child, through the demon's roar as she felt the death of her mother._

_The warrior left Tristram a changed man, within and without. He bore a terrible wound on his forehead, a red gleam in his eyes, and was filled with a strange restlessness. He soon left Tristram, but the evil brought forth from Hell did not dissipate with Diablo's "death."_

_As for Jermala, she was left orphaned at the tender age of ten in a strange land with no means of support. The married couple who had been entrusted with Jermala during her mother's absence was killed by several of the Undead soon after Mistri's death, leaving Jermala without even their scant protection. But she was a fledgling Sorceress and she was determined to survive. And for fourteen years, that is exactly what she did. Jermala traveled throughout the Western Kingdoms of Sanctuary, never willing to stay too long in one place for fear of being found and trapped by minions of Hell, or, worse, getting those who sheltered her killed. Since Mistri had badly wounded Diablo, it made sense that Jermala feared retribution by the forces of Hell. She dared not travel north to the Barbarian lands, or East to Lut Gholein or further east to her jungle home. For Jermala sensed that Diablo had survived and was slowly recovering from the wounds that Mistri had inflicted on him. He was still in the Western Kingdoms, that much Jermala could sense. She dared not leave, for fear she would loose his scent, and she dared not come to grips with him. As Hell's hold on Sanctuary grew, so did Jermala's knowledge and powers, but she was not strong enough to confront him . . . not yet. _


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1:**

Jermala scrubbed down the stained wooden table top, pitted and marked with dents from the bottoms of mugs whose owners had imbibed a little too much cheap mead, with an equally grubby cloth. It was merely a token effort; nothing was ever truly clean here in this dim, smoky excuse for a tavern. More like a den for destitute thieves, outcasts, and trappers down on their luck.

_Not that there is much luck these days,_ she thought grimly, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn stain. Hell's power in Sanctuary was growing, although most people had little or no idea what exactly was going on or where these horrors were coming from. All they seemed to know was that the world had gotten a whole lot more dangerous.

_How much of that is due to stupidity or pipe-smoke?_ Jermala wondered acidly as she saw Calman, the stunted human proprietor of the tavern nudge a half-conscious incumbent in the corner. She immediately squelched that ungenerous thought, picking up her tray and serving some of the other patrons. She did not know anything about that man's past; he might have a very good reason to smoke his life away. Perhaps that was all he had left. _Poor fellow has been sitting there in that same corner for days, _Jermala thought, glancing over at him._ Whatever happened to him, it must have been pretty terrible. _Considering her own shattered past, she had no room to judge. As for the rest of Sanctuary, most of the people were not mages. They could not sense the wrongness in their world, could not feel the twisted and corrupted lines of magic like she could. Even if other people could have felt the wrongness, they would most likely not be able to put a name to the source, unless they were being overrun by hordes of zombies or skeleton archers. Most were simple farmers, merchants, or craftsmen trying to make a living and still keep themselves and their families alive. Most probably could not see the larger consequences, how this could end up destroying the world.

_Not like I can, _Jermala thought grimly, evading the outstretched hands of drunken patrons with unconscious ease and grace. The nightmares and pain she still carried from her mother's death and her long, lonely years of wandering was testament to that. It had happened eight years ago, but the grief and agony was fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Eight years of wandering and learning, of hardship, pain, and fear . . . Jermala felt much older than her eighteen years, much older. And after all that, she knew that she still was not ready to face Diablo. There was still more that she had to learn, more training, more power. However, she would not be able to wait much longer. _He _was growing stronger.

A gust of cold wind made the young woman shiver and turn instinctively towards the door. Silhouetted on the threshold against the swirling backdrop of the mountain snowstorm was a cloaked and hooded figure carrying a greatsword. Jermala entertained a moment of curiosity and pity for anyone who dared to brave the northern snows in winter. She was about to turn back to serving the other tables, but something about the stranger caught her attention. Maybe it was the way he stood utterly still for a moment before entering, or maybe it was the way he walked, slightly with a limp as though he was injured or very weary. Or perhaps it was because he was using his sword like cane to support his weight, rather than having it sheathed at his side or across his back. Whatever it was, Jermala felt a bit uneasy. It was nothing specific, just a prickling of discomfort.

Jermala kept a wary eye on the stranger as he sat down in a shadowy corner with the air of someone who was about to collapse from exhaustion. A feeling of pity and sympathy filled the kind-hearted Sorceress. Despite her long years of wandering with more than her share of trouble, Jermala had managed to keep her generous and caring nature more or less intact. Seeing someone else so obviously ill, exhausted, and in need aroused her protective Healing instincts.

After disposing of the drinks on her tray, Jermala hurried to the fire and scooped some boiling water into a mug, adding some herbs to induce calm, relaxation, and to lessen pain. The soothing scent of the herbs infused the steam curling up from the tea, making her own tense muscles relax. This had been her mother's favorite tea for relieving aches and pains. Jermala turned away from the fire and made her way across the lofty common room towards the silent stranger huddled in the corner.

_He was weakening even as his battered body healed. But it was not truly his body anymore. His control was fading . . . slowly but steadily he was loosing control. It had taken everything he had to keep the demon occupied this long. The demon was being held at bay now . . . but not for long. His gaze swept around the hall of the Rogues' Citadel. It had taken a long time to reach this place, but this was where the perfect tool had gone, so he followed. Marius was here, hiding in the corner nearby, a half-mad shell. Yes, Marius would do nicely . . . He ripped his mind from of the insidious plans of the demon, seeking a distraction, something to occupy his mind . . . His eyes fixed upon a young woman, little more than a girl-child, who was approaching him . . ._

Jermala walked slowly towards the stranger. Some of the men who came out of the snow-swept nights were half-mad and dangerous, so she had to approach cautiously. She could see nothing of his face, hooded as it was, and his patched robes were of a non-descript gray-brown color, giving no hint of his origin or purpose. His hands, pale and thin, clenched convulsively on the hilt of his sword as he recoiled from her.

"It's alright, good sir," she said soothingly and politely. "I can see that you've had a long journey, and a hard one too, judging from the storm outside." Jermala knelt down so she was at eye level with the stranger and held out the mug. "This is just some tea to take the edge off the cold." She smiled wryly. "Don't worry. Calman doesn't take kindly to people poisoning his patrons."

The stranger did not relax, but he did not draw further away either. He seemed to be watching her, weighing the truth of her words. Jermala smiled warmly in encouragement. Slowly, he reached for the mug, the firelight flickering off his hooded features as he did so . . .

_She seemed vaguely familiar, this girl, as she knelt there, smiling gently, offering the tea. "Good sir," she had called him . . .oh, how wrong she was! Yet there was no malicious taunting here, only a genuine warmth and concern such as he had not _seen _in years,_ _let alone had directed at himself. She could not know what he was. But there was still something very familiar, something in the way she carried herself, in her waist-length brown hair and blue-gray eyes . . ._

. . . and Jermala's breath caught in her throat. Those features, gaunt and pale with a soul-deep pain and struggle, were as familiar to her as her own. She had seen them often enough in her childhood, though his eyes had never been this dark, maddened shade of red. Her blood froze in her veins and all her defense training disappeared from her mind as she saw a flicker of recognition cross his tortured features. _The tea! _she realized in a flash of panic. _That special blend . . . how could I have been so foolish! _Jermala knew that she was not ready for this, not nearly strong enough for the inevitable battle. She could only sit, paralyzed with terror at the feet of the very one who had haunted her dreams for eight years, the creature she had sworn to kill. . .

_Realization shot through him, and memories flooded back, evoked by the unique scent of the herbs in the tea. Now he knew why she looked so familiar. She looked like Mistri. Same unconscious grace and poise, same polite manner with a touch of her wicked humor, Mistri's flowing deep brown locks and finely sculpted features. The only difference was in her eyes, the same blue-grey as ice and the Great Ocean, as his had once been. . ._

_His daughter._

Her father.

They froze in a strange tableau staring at each other. Jermala's mind raced in gibbering circles. How had she failed to sense him? How much of him was demon and how much was still her father? Thank goodness Mistri had taught her how to shield the mage-gift, otherwise he would have killed her the second he stepped through the door. Was he going to slay her now? Jermala probed those strange, inhuman eyes and saw human pain, a flicker of his deadly internal struggle.

_His eyes raced over her face, drinking in details he thought he would never see. It was dangerous, yes, but he could not help himself. It had been so long . . . What he saw both pleased and pained him. She had obviously suffered great hardships. The lines of wariness and strain stood out sharply on her too-young face. But she was resilient and her soul was pure. Relief rushed through him. One of his greatest fears had been that Diablo would find some way to corrupt his daughter through their bond of blood. She was afraid of him . . .oh yes, he could see that in her wide eyes, but that showed wisdom. Beneath that fear was defiance, which showed promise. And she had compassion, which gave him hope._

Jermala tensed, shaking off her paralysis of fear and readied herself for battle as the man's face twisted, fighting the demon for control. His frail body shook with intense convulsions, and he lost his grip on his sword, letting it clatter to the floor. The shaking intensified. The mug fell to the floor, shattering, and he gripped his right hand, clenching it into a fist. Seeing his pain tore at her heart. This might be a demon, but it was her father who was being tormented. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, reading her expression of pain on his behalf . . .and shook his head.

"Only death . . ." his voice rasped harshly, as he forced the words out past the demon's compulsions. He could speak no more as the convulsions increased, but Jermala understood his meaning. Only death could free him from this terrible bondage. There would be no other way.

She heard some of the men laughing at the shaking warrior's weakness . . . they could not see the demon-taint. A strange green light flickered for a split second within the man's body. The demon was breaking loose.

Her father fixed his tormented eyes on Jermala's face. "Run!" he hissed in desperation. She hesitated, nodded her understanding, then stood and walked away. She did not run, for that was a sure was of attracting trouble. In his last moments before Diablo's hellish power broke loose, her father admired her calm and control in the face of death.

_(to be continued. . . )_


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter (?)**

(Please note that this in an incomplete fragment. The rest of the story will be added later and Chapter numbers revised accordingly.)

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_This scene takes place just after Jermala the Sorceress _

_has killed the demon-creature Duriel _

_in the long-sealed Tomb of Tal Rasha:_

The rush of adrenaline faded away and the sudden weakness of exhaustion struck Jermala. Her legs buckled and she slid to the floor, leaning against her staff. She had been fighting for hours through Tal Rasha's tomb, only to meet this monster……_Don't think about it, _Jermala thought. Her lips curled in disgust and revulsion at the sight of the maggots crawling from the oozing remains of Duriel's bloated body.

_Come on, Jere, _she thought, _don't just sit here waiting for something worse to come along. You've got to get to Tal Rasha._

Every muscle screamed in protest, but Jermala knew that if she stayed there, she would never get up again. Weakness would kill her, even if Duriel had not. She hobbled a few steps, leaning heavily on her staff like an old woman.

There was an opening, a passageway, which led further into this hidden chamber of the tomb. A warm breeze touched her face.

"Well, here goes nothing," Jermala muttered, stepping more briskly into the passage.

Her mage-sight allowed her to see clearly in absolute darkness without alerting the dark-dwellers of her presence. The air smelled dank and stale, as if it had not been open in many years, despite the faint, heated breeze. This part of the tomb had not been open for her to explore until she had placed the Horadric Staff into its special orifice. Jermala could not help but marvel at the elaborate paintings and statues adorning the walls, their colors still vivid after decades.

"Someone went through a lot of trouble to make this place look good," she commented to the darkness. "All this for someone who'd never see it, whose sole purpose in coming here was to be a jail to house a demon." Jermala shuddered, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. A feeling of ancient evil and torment hung heavy here. _Poor Tal Rasha, _she thought. _Imagine having to be possessed and tortured by a monster like Baal for all eternity. Yet he did this, made the ultimate sacrifice, so the world would be safe. _The young sorceress shook her head. Despite all she had done to combat the three Prime Evils, she doubted that she would have had the courage to do what Tal Rasha had done.

Jermala slowed her steps as a reddish glow began to lighten the air. She inched along the wall, staff held at the ready, calling on the last dregs of her strength to prepare a spell, should she have to fight again. Carefully, she approached the doorway where the sullen red glow flowed in.

For a moment, Jermala stood there, awestruck. The chamber was huge. An expanse of gray stone led up to the edge of a yawning crevasse. She could smell the hot, burning fumes of molten rock, the fire part of her magic strengthening in the presence of the smoldering element. The chasm completely encircled an island of rock with only a single wood and rope bridge spanning the gap. A stone pillar engraved with runes and spells of binding stood in the center. But, there was no sign of Tal Rasha. The bent and twisted remains of chains embedded in the pillar gave mute witness to a captive long gone. But all of these things she saw and noted absently, for her attention was riveted on a shining being on the bridge.

He easily stood twice the height any mortal man, a height added to by the fact that he was hovering above the planks of the bridge. White robes clothed him from head to foot, and a hood kept his entire face in shadow, but Jermala could sense his eyes upon her, watching her with the wisdom of ages. Most stunning of all were his piercingly white wings, so bright it hurt to look at them. They waved and floated as if with a heavenly wind, not quite like a bird's wings and not quite tentacles, but something in between that could serve as both. They were more like a collection of long, strong, flexible feathers made of light. A great, shining sword hung at his side from a golden belt. A holy aura of peace and nobility, of kindness and strength, of wisdom and beauty so great it hurt surrounded him. Jermala, despite her efforts to appear calm and in control, felt tears welling up in her eyes at the sight, though she did not know why. Yet, despite his brilliant beauty, the figure seemed slightly….tattered. His robes were torn, his wings moved slowly, and his sword was broken, snapped in half. Something in his demeanor seemed very weary, as if he had been fighting very hard for a long, long time. Jermala cautiously moved closer until her feet touched the first planks of the bridge. Then, the shining being spoke.

"I thank you for my freedom, mortal," he said, his voice deep, solemn, and melodious. "I have been waiting for you, although I expected you much sooner."

"I ran into a little trouble along the way," Jermala said dryly, feeling a little miffed at the being's tone. "And I thought you would show your hand in this sooner….Archangel Tyrael."

A note of surprise crept into Tyrael's voice. "So, you know me."

"I know _of_ you," Jermala answered. "Deckard Cain told me a little of the war between you and the Prime Evils."

"This war not only concerns the Evils and myself," answered the Archangel. "The outcome will affect all those who live in Heaven, in Hell, and in your world most of all."

Jermala felt irritated now rather than awed. "Then why isn't anyone else helping?" she demanded. "Why am I the only one here fighting Diablo and his brothers, doing all the dirty work, if it's that damned important?"

"You are not the only one," Tyrael said, sounding a trifle annoyed himself.

Jermala laughed harshly, leaning on her staff to ease her wounded leg. There was a hysterical edge to her voice. "Ah, yes. I see. You can't take care of Diablo and the others yourself so you get me, a mere mortal, to do it for you!" She swung her arm out, indicating the empty chamber. "Where is this help? Invisible? Who had to fight all of the undead monsters through this maze of a tomb only to find that Tal Rasha isn't even _here_ anymore? Who cleansed the Den of Evil at the Rogue Encampment? Who cleaned up Jeryn's palace, filled with the mutilated bodies of those girls?" Her voice choked as she hissed out, "_Who got Paige killed?_"

She could feel the tears on her face and the irrational anger in her heart. The teachings of the Sorceresses came back to help her in that moment, how to clear the mind and channel emotion. Jermala took several deep breaths, trying to calm her inner turmoil, letting the peace surrounding Tyrael seep into her heart.

"I'm sorry, Tyrael," she said softly, her voice tired. "I know it wasn't you. You didn't ask for this and neither did I, but we're both stuck with it." Jermala sighed. "I'm just…tired. Tired of these missions and quests and battles that never seem to end. I've seen so much death…maybe too much. Sooner or later, it's going to catch up with me. Right now I'm too exhausted to care, but when I sleep…." Her voice trailed off as she shivered, remembering the nightmares that had tormented her ever since that long ago night in a dark tavern and the smell blood and charred flesh.

Tyrael was silent for a long moment. "I am sorry for your loss," he finally said, his voice deep and solemn. "Paige was a fine warrior, a true servant of the Light. Do not blame yourself for her death. She went into battle with her eyes open and died with honor."

Jermala smiled slightly at the Archangel, feeling some of her burden of guilt lift at his gentle words, his heavenly peace flowing through her. "Thank you." She took another breath, shaking herself back to some semblance of professionalism. "Well, now that I'm here, what am I supposed to do now? Tal Rasha is not here."

"You know that Baal was imprisoned here within the soulstone, which had been driven into the chest of the mage Tal Rasha. My mission was to guard Baal's soulstone and keep the demon from escaping...but...I have failed." Tyrael's voice dropped slightly as if in self-reproach and his ethereal wings drooped. "Baal escaped and I was imprisoned here in his stead."

Jermala stiffened, her mind flashing back to a series of images. "The little man," she whispered.

"What?"

"The little man in my dreams," the Sorceress stammered. "In Lut Gholein, I had dreams…vivid dreams. I saw Tal Rasha…chained…screaming…and then the man who wasn't a man going across the bridge…your wings and sword flashing as you fought him…and the little man went across the bridge…and pulled out a yellow stone!" Her face went pale. "It wasn't a dream, was it, Tyrael?" Jermala whispered hoarsely. "What I saw in my dreams…it really happened."

The Archangel nodded. "Now Baal moves to join his brothers Diablo and Mephisto at the Temple of the Zakarum in the eastern capital of Kurast. You must prevent Mephisto from joining with his brothers or all will be lost!" Tyrael's voice, fierce with determination, lowered into a sigh. "I am broken and the energies holding me to this world are fading quickly. Now, hurry mortal! Time is running out for all of us!" His urgency, so unusual for an eternal being, spread to Jermala, and she felt herself standing taller with determination and a fierceness of her own.

Tyrael seemed to smile slightly, although she could not see his face. He raised his arm and a shimmering blue portal appeared. Jermala smiled her thanks, since her own mana was too depleted to sustain a portal. Before stepping through, she hesitated and turned back to the Archangel.

"Will you be alright?" She flushed. "I know that's a silly question, you being the Archangel, but…"

Again, Tyrael seemed to smile, glowing wings stirring slightly. "I thank you for your concern, but do not trouble yourself over my well-being. Soon Baal's bonds will crumble and I shall return to the Pandemonium Fortress to heal. Now go. There is little time."

Jermala bowed to the Archangel and stepped through the portal.

She experienced the sudden disorientation that accompanied using a magical portal. The desert sun shone painfully bright after her long hours underground. The sorceress blinked and shielded her streaming eyes from the intense light, waiting for them to adjust. Out here it was midday and she recognized the busy sounds and smooth, hot stones of Lut Gholein, as well as the gasps that accompanied her appearance. She heard a familiar voice cry out in astonishment.

"Jermala! What in the name of the gods happened to you?"

"Atma?" Jermala asked, blinking furiously.

"Of course Atma," the gentle and motherly woman answered. "Come on now. You look like you've gone through Hell and back!"

Jermala began to laugh, hearing the hysterical edge in her own voice. "Hell….no, I didn't quite go that far yet…although, that's probably where Tyrael will send me next…" She could feel her consciousness waning, despite the multitude of scrapes, cuts, and bruises clamoring for her attention. Although that gash in her leg needed mending. _I should probably fix that. . ._

Strong arms caught her before she could hit the hot pavement stones. Voices floated in and out of her awareness, talking to her, to each other. Cain's voice sounded distinctly in her ears, although she couldn't understand him. Something about the tomb….

Urgency stabbed through her. "Tyrael!" she croaked. "Tyrael was there…Tal Rasha's gone…Baal…Kurast…."

Cool hands touched her forehead. "Rest now," Cain said with unexpected gentleness. Jermala, weary as she was, could do nothing but obey and slid into a healing sleep.


End file.
